


Finding Viktor Krum

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-12
Updated: 2009-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A man walks into a pub..." Or, how the universe played a joke on Albus Severus Potter and how he learned to go along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Viktor Krum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Femme (femmequixotic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/gifts).



> Written for the 2009 run of HP Beholder on IJ.

A man walks into a pub...

No, scratch that. That wasn't quite where it started. Strictly speaking, it started five minutes before that, or maybe only three, with Albus Potter and his jittery, jangling Saturday night nerves hurrying down the dead-end alley that separated Muggle Edinburgh from the wizarding district.

'All right,' he thought firmly to himself, his cheeks still hot. 'Never doing _that_ again.'

His ears popped as he crossed through the barrier. The mutter and growl of the night-time city fell away behind him, replaced by the soft chirrup of crickets in the park. The post office clock said half-eleven, and Ghillie Dhu Square had retired for the night: dark storefronts and shuttered windows, and the warm glow of lamplight under a cold array of stars.

Albus let out a hard breath.

He hesitated at the corner, wondering if he should just go home and let the day bury itself. No, no good. He was too keyed up to sleep, the driving drumbeat of the club still pulsing in his veins and his stomach twisted up tight in a nauseated knot. He felt like running, as ungainly a sight as that would be, and settled on a walk around the park instead.

His boots clicked conspicuously as he crossed the deserted high street. He shoved his hands in his pockets. This was the last time. Never mind that he'd sworn the very same thing last week and each of the three before—he really meant it now. No more evening jaunts into Muggleville. No more discotheques bursting at the seams with head-splitting music and stupid phosphorescent novelty drinks. And, most importantly, no more sweaty, undignified, embarrassingly fit idiots tearing off their shirts and grinding on the dance floor.

Not that there had _been_ any of the last, for that certain value of the word. But they had certainly made up part of the general atmosphere.

Unfortunately, putting his foot down only made him trip over a cobblestone. He managed to catch himself before he could go sprawling face-first on the pavement, and he pushed his glasses back up his nose. That was when he saw the light. Literally. He paused in his review of all the little humiliations of the evening—all the fumbled small talk, all the blushes, all the longing and stupid disappointment—and craned his neck to peer around the corner.

Someone was still up at the Hammer and Tongs.

In the four months Albus had lived in Edinburgh since leaving school, he'd yet to actually set foot in the place. He wasn't much for pubs to start with, and the Hammer and Tongs was The Other Pub in the square. If you wanted to catch up with your mates and half-heartedly listen to the match whilst wholeheartedly mingling with girls, you went to the Warlock's Arms. If you wanted to get drunk, you went to the Hammer and Tongs.

...upon consideration, that sounded rather more appealing than a walk in the park.

He turned down Trotter Street, passing the apothecary, and the butcher's shop, and then the curry house. The 'Open' sign was still set out in the pub window, and he took the short stairway down to the entrance and cautiously tried the door. It proved unlocked. He poked his head inside.

The pub was uncomfortably stuffy after the brisk autumn air. The lighting was a dreary yellow, and the room smelled of tobacco and strong spirits. Terrible magical acoustics, that was his first impression. He'd be surprised if even the relatively sober patrons didn't regularly splinch themselves apparating out of here.

His second impression was an indistinct 'Oh.'

A lone customer sat at the bar, a glass in one hand and a book in the other. Albus had casually noticed him around the square on more than one occasion. He was about Albus's parents' age, perhaps. Heavy-browed and hawk-nosed, with closely sheared black hair and a Van Dyke beard, and currently wearing a scowl so fierce that Albus nearly sprang back out the door like a cowardly jack-in-the-box. Only the ridiculousness of the urge stopped thought from becoming deed. He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door carefully behind him. He was working on expanding his horizons.

Mr. Scowl glanced up from his book and looked him over slowly. His eyes were very wide and very dark, and Albus fidgeted, reminding himself that this was not a gay bar, and that a look like that in here meant that he should be watching his back not his backside.

The man's thin mouth quirked at the corner like a fishhook.

Albus felt his face warm. At least he _thought_ that's what it meant. He managed a polite nod and settled in a comfortable three stools away. He folded his hands on the polished bar top, trying not to let them clench.

He waited.

The clock on the far wall ticked awkwardly on for one minute, then two, then three. The only other sound in the room was quiet sipping and the occasional whisper of a page turning. Albus sneaked another glance at the man. No, that smirk hadn't meant anything, certainly, or at least not anything good. He wasn't stupid; he knew he wasn't the sort who attracted attention at first glance. Too short, too skinny, too speccy.

'Not that I would know,' Scorpius had once told him, 'but I expect you might be an acquired taste. Like Muriel Goshawk in Ravenclaw. Or goat cheese.'

Albus didn't like Muriel Goshawk, but he did like goat cheese, and he thought Mr. Scowl over there was really a bit of all right, even if the feeling wasn't mutual. Not handsome, exactly, but with a certain sharp-featured allure that kept Albus stealing little sidelong looks. Clever eyes. Amazing cheekbones. Really nice hands.

All right, so it was late and he was randy, and all the testosterone and pheromones at the club had turned him into a fiend. A nice cold, strong drink was all he needed. He cleared his throat, standing up and trying to peer through the door at the end of the bar. "Is someone actually back there?"

Mr. Scowl did not reply. He only sighed and knocked back the rest of his drink. Then he picked up a cardboard coaster and marked his place in his book before sourly rising and walking around to the other side of the bar. Standing, he wasn't any taller than Albus, but that didn't make him any less intimidating when he crossed his arms and glowered. "What do you want?"

It took Albus several seconds to hear past the voice to the words. What sort of accent was that—Polish? Russian? His 'what' and 'want' were faintly, pleasantly spirant. He blinked, blankly surveying the row of bottles. "Ah..."

The look the barkeep gave him suggested he'd be drinking nothing and doing it out on the street besides if he didn't make up his mind this instant.

"Rum and pumpkin, please," he blurted out, still thinking about V's and W's. Bugger. He didn't even like rum and pumpkin, but it was the first thing to come to mind.

The barkeep—he _was_ the barkeep, right? there wasn't someone tied up and gagged in back?—turned with a faint "Nn," and started pulling bottles off the shelf.

Albus dug a proper coin out from amongst his Muggle money and fought the urge to twirl on the bar stool. His gaze gravitated to the nearest book, as it tended to do in uncomfortable social situations. He scanned the spine, eyebrows lifting. "Is that McQuillin's new Hypatia biography?"

"Mm." The barkeep didn't look up, busy popping the cap off a bottle.

He was still on the waiting list to borrow this one from the library. His fingers twitched, itching to pick it up and page through, but touching someone else's book without permission was nearly as rude as shoving a hand up their robes in his opinion.

...hold that thought.

"Is it any good?" he asked, trying to read the blurb on the back upside-down.

The barkeep set his glass down in front of him. "It is clever—when he remembers it is not a memoir."

Albus groaned. "Oh, not another _Life of Isidore_. When will he realise no one cares about his lonely childhood spent romping in the fens of Lincolnshire?"

That earned him a chuckle—a warm, low sound. Albus never knew when he was being funny.

The first taste of his drink proved just as pleasant a surprise. There was cream in it, and the rim of the glass was sprinkled with brown sugar. He took a second sip. "Wow."

The barkeep smiled smugly.

'Not a gay bar, not a gay bar, not a gay bar.' He tore his gaze away and looked about in search of a chaste distraction.

Honestly, now, the pub could have been taken straight out of one of Mr. Zabini's lesson plans on how not to design a casual public space. Those mirrors were misaligned, for one thing, practically begging for a misfired spell to ricochet. The timber post in front of the hearth had a split down the middle that he'd wager was from too many thick-skulled individuals flying out of the floo headfirst. The ceiling was too low, and the windows were too large, and the placement of those doors were giving him a headache...

"Yes, yes, it is built badly," the barkeep muttered, causing Albus to look up sharply. "It was like this when I bought it. I must hang copper plates on the walls if I want to reset the wards."

Albus grinned a touch incredulously. "You know your magical design."

A humble wave of the hand. "Only elementary."

"Well, most people don't know even that." He was growing accustomed to glazed eyes or furrowed brows at best whenever he started talking about his work to anyone outside the firm.

"Most people are imbeciles."

It knocked a laugh out of him, his mouth twisting wryly. "So I'm discovering," he said and immediately felt guilty for the snobbery of it.

He reached for his cloak pocket before remembering that he was wearing his Muggle jacket. Right, no business cards. His fingers drummed nervously on his thigh. He finally offered his hand instead. "Ah, if you're ever looking to remodel, I'm an apprentice with Forthright and Zabini here in town. We do excellent work. Oh, and I'm Albus. Albus Evans."

A warm, strong hand enfolded his own. The barkeep seemed to hesitate several moments before giving his name. "Krum."

"Happy to meet you, Mr. Krum."

The man hesitated again and then shrugged, seemingly to himself. "Viktor, please."

"Yes, sir. I mean, Viktor." Albus coloured. He was still getting used to being out of school.

Viktor, Viktor, Viktor Krum poured himself another glass of what looked to be scotch and came back around the bar. He reclaimed his seat but didn't pick up his book.

Albus hesitated and then took that as a cue, swivelling to face him. "Um. Have you ever read Li's _Magical Places, Sensible Spaces_?"

"Long ago. In school." A pause. "I enjoyed it."

"They just put out a reprint," Albus said, toying with his glass. "There's a foreword by his son, who talks about the new studies in arith-geomantic stabling, you know, the whole business about equations for building over and around Muggle electrical lines? And he points out that when his father was discussing—"

He cut himself off, suspecting he was about to go off on one of his rambles.

Except, Viktor didn't take the reprieve. He nodded, in fact, and then waved for him to continue. "It is the part about the thermic baseline, yes?"

Albus blinked. Then he smiled. And then he pulled out his notebook and collapsible quill and began to sketch out a diagram. "You see, if this is the ground level, and we have power-posts here..."

Maybe the night wasn't a complete waste after all.

* * *

It was past one o'clock when he finally let Viktor Krum close up the pub.

Trotter Street was only a few blocks from his flat, and the night had warmed a little in that way it did when the clouds closed in. He took his time making his way home, idly weaving in between the lampposts until he reached his building. All the lights in his corner of the place were on. The curtains were askew, and from all the way out here, he could hear recorded voices blaring through the window.

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that Scorpius was still up. Three months after being kicked out of his parents' house, he still acted as though there were a house-elf following behind him at all times, cleaning up his crumbs and turning off the lights and flushing the toilet. The closest Albus's flat had was mice, but they weren't really inclined to light domestic work.

He let himself in through the side door and took off his boots before tiptoeing up the stairs so as not to set off Mrs. Gout's poltergeist. The door to the flat hadn't been locked, as usual. He went inside to find Scorpius sitting naked on the couch, eating ice cream from the carton and watching the replay of the Appleby-Kenmare match on the telephonoscope. His good mood deflated slightly.

Scorpius looked up languidly several seconds after Albus had turned the deadbolt with a pointed 'click.' "No luck, I see."

On the tele, someone in Appleby red got hit in the face with a bludger. Albus frowned, taking off his jacket and surveying the new mess in the kitchen. "Kestrels win two-hundred-and-ten to zero."

Scorpius groaned and threw down his spoon in disgust. "I was waiting all day to see this match! Why did you have to tell me that? How do you even know that?"

"There was a blurb in the evening edition of the Prophet beside the real news." He summoned the dishrag out from under the teetering pile of plates in the sink and wiped a smear of what he hoped was jam off the rug. "Why do _you_ have to assume I had an unsuccessful night?"

"Because I can smell a virgin at ten paces. And because you're in far too prissy a mood to have just been shagged." Scorpius looked over at the clock. Albus was usually going to bed just as Scorpius was getting around to dinner. "Unless it was a crap shag. Was it a crap shag? Do I have to go and grievously torture some Muggle brute on your behalf? Because I will, Albus. I will bring the garlic press."

Albus rolled his eyes, smiling slightly despite himself. "No. There was no brute and there was no shag, crap or otherwise."

"Oh, good." Scorpius retrieved his spoon and took a large bite of what on closer inspection proved to be the pint of Fortescue's Premium Chocolate Mint-Stravaganza that Albus had hidden in the back of the icebox, charmed to look like frozen peas. "I was willing to do it, though. That's how much I care for you. And on a completely unrelated note, I need to borrow some money."

The pounding drum music at the club had not managed to give him a sensitive head, but Scorpius was reliably efficient. "How much and what for?"

Scorpius had the good grace to shift awkwardly. It was utterly feigned, of course, but it was the thought that counted. "Oh, thirty galleons. Or forty. Fifty would really be best."

"Fifty galleons." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Please tell me you did not just lose fifty galleons on that game."

"No..." Scorpius had a way of speaking very slowly and clearly, as if Albus were the daft one. "I only lost ten galleons on the game. But I was supposed to win forty, and since you spoiled that for me..."

"The game was called eight hours ago—hopefully _after_ you placed your bet. I had nothing to do with it. Where did you even get ten galleons?" He dared to brighten. "I don't suppose you found a job?"

"Nah. Father sent it, on the promise that I don't tell Mother. I think he's softening."

"Then I don't suppose there's enough left over to pay any of the back rent you owe me."

Scorpius looked, of course, as though the thought had never even crossed his mind. "...no? But you know I'm good for it. We're blood kin—practically brothers!"

"We're fourth cousins once removed."

"Like I said." Scorpius beamed that charming smile his way. "Practically brothers."

At that, Albus imagined himself still sharing a house with James and counted his blessings. At least Scorpius had never pushed him off the roof to see if he'd bounce. "Then at least do the brotherly thing and remove your hairy balls from my couch."

Scorpius examined himself. "I shaved them, actually. Rose's idea. She was over earlier—went absolutely mental for it."

He clapped his hands over his ears. "LALALALALA!"

"What?"

Albus shuddered, very cautiously letting his hands down. "I do not want to hear about it. She's my cousin. She's _your_ cousin, for that matter."

Scorpius shrugged. "Fourth cousin, once removed. Hardly counts."

Albus sighed and sat down heavily at the opposite end of the couch. Scorpius had the decency to dig his robe out from under a cushion to cover his hairless shame.

"So...crap night, then?"

"Yep."

"Another Muggle den of sin?"

"Yep."

"Listen, I keep telling you, decent brothels are surprisingly affordable these days..."

"For the last time, I do not want to pay for sex." He held up a hand when Scorpius's mouth opened again. "And I do not want to be paid for sex."

"You didn't sneak out to go and read in the cafe again, did you?"

"No." He might as well have, though, for all the luck he'd had. "I stayed until nearly half-eleven."

He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. Scorpius had never been a brilliant student, but he could do basic sums.

"Wait a minute. So what have you been doing for the last hour and a half? Did you leave with someone?"

He shook his head, attempting to sound bored. "I just went to a pub and had a drink."

Scorpius wasn't fooled. "You met someone there! Who is he? Oh, just tell me his name isn't _Jayden_. I could forgive you for dallying with Muggles, but not a Muggle named _Jayden_."

"His name isn't Jayden, he isn't a Muggle, and we didn't _meet_. We just talked. I don't even think he's—we just talked."

'And yet...' a treacherously optimistic little voice in his head whispered. It was not quite optimistic enough to elaborate. It was only an 'And yet...'

"You're blushing."

"I am not." He was.

"Well, fine. Be that way. At least it wasn't a Muggle."

Albus let his head fall back. "Muggles aren't so bad, and you know it. They can even get married. Two men, I mean, or two women."

Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He seemed to consider that seriously. "Huh. Good."

Albus regarded him warily. "Good?"

"Well, that means they won't be having children. I'm sure we'll start outnumbering them any day now."

"I hate you."

"You love me. So was he fit?"

"Who?"

"Not-Jayden the Not-Muggle."

"Oh." He considered the question objectively. "He was...interesting."

"You mean ugly."

"I do not," Albus protested.

"Yes, you do. You're just too aesthetically challenged to know it."

It was not the first time they'd had this argument. "People have different tastes, Malfoy. For instance, some of us like to wear clothing in our spare time. Some of us like to hold steady jobs. Some of us like to be attracted to people who are smart and interesting and competent instead of dating our best mate's cousins."

"Are you saying Rose is a dim-witted, incompetent bore?" Scorpius looked more amused than offended. Likely because he was picturing what Rose would do to Albus after he relayed that little titbit.

Albus groaned. "No, and you know I don't. It's just been a long day and I'm marginally tipsy." He would never admit to it aloud, but when Scorpius had shown up on his doorstep the night his parents threw him out, he'd been certain it would be two weeks tops before Scorpius denounced Rose and returned home for his creature comforts. He had never been happier to be proven wrong.

Scorpius shrugged. "At any rate, you're a liar. If smarts were all you were after, you'd have offered up your tender virgin ring to someone like Professor Slughorn. Deep down, you're as shallow as the rest of us—you just have no taste."

He cleared his throat. His growing blush went unnoticed just long enough that he nearly dared to hope he would get away with it. He didn't.

Scorpius turned his head very slowly. "You...don't fancy Professor Slughorn."

There would be no rest if he tried to deflect it. "Well. He has his dapper moments."

"He's Slughorn!"

"He's just so good at what he does..." Albus protested feebly.

"What he does is flatter people and ogle nubile young men."

"Hey now, he makes a good potion too."

"You're a sick man, Potter."

Albus sighed. "Pretty all looks the same. Not-pretty is...unique."

"_You're_ unique," Scorpius said, in a tone that made it clear that 'unique' meant 'barmy.'

"That," Albus said, picking himself and trudging off to bed, "might be the problem right there."

* * *

'All right,' Albus thought to himself. '_This_ is the very last time.'

It was Hallowe'en and he was holding up the back wall of Slick, watching a mass of imp tails, angel wings, and cat ears shake and slink and sway on the dance floor. Ten feet away, someone was receiving a rather indiscreet hand job. If he couldn't lose his virginity to a halfway acceptable partner here, tonight, he truly was a lost cause.

He ordered another cider against his better judgement. It wasn't that he was worried about getting drunk, not with his wand in his boot and four years of practising sobering charms on Scorpius, but he was a little afraid to go into the toilets after the last time. The obscenely tan barkeep flashed him a bright 'tip-me' smile, blinding white against his tangerine skin, before turning his attention to a slim blond wearing nothing but a pair of y-fronts.

Albus slipped back out of range of the seizing lights, taking a long pull from the bottle. He had very nearly plucked up the courage to approach the fellow with the dreadlocks—or rather, was convincing himself he was plucking up the courage—when a man in a long black coat and odd sunglasses appeared at his side. The man half-shouted something that was too garbled to hear over the music.

'Pardon?' Albus mouthed.

The fellow leaned in. He wasn't bad looking, really. Mostly. Tall and fairly muscled with a little softness around the middle, his hair thinning just slightly and held up with too much goop. From this close, Albus could tell he was wearing pancake paint and suspected it wasn't a part of his costume.

"I said, are you supposed to be a bishop or something? Kinky!"

Albus wrinkled his nose at the waft of stale beer in his face and forced a smile. "I'm a wizard, actually." Well, _he_ thought it was funny. "What are you supposed to be?"

It earned him a surprised blink. "I'm D.I. Davies! From _Bleeding Blue_?"

"Oh, right." He feigned a knowing nod. "Nice one."

A hand settled on his hip. "You're pretty cute, you know."

"Um. Thanks. I...like your sunglasses." He didn't. They were like mirrored insect eyes, and all he could see was his own distorted, bigheaded reflection looking nervously back at himself.

"Do you want to dance?"

He smiled sheepishly. "I don't dance."

"What do you do, then?" the man asked, leaning in even closer. His hand slid back, cupping Albus's arse.

He panicked, his voice coming out very small and very high. "I think I hear my car on fire!"

Wrenching himself out of D.I. Whatever's grip, he escaped onto the dance floor. Something tightened up inside him, halfway between turned on and ill. He pushed himself through the close, damp crowd, trying to make his way to the door. A slim, shirtless angel who looked far too young to be in here intercepted him, throwing his arms around Albus's neck.

"I fucking looooooove this song!"

His pupils were huge, only the barest sliver of blue visible around them. His skin was burning hot. Albus swallowed hard and gently extricated himself, wondering distantly if the thumping drum and bleepity-bleeps of one song or another were distinguishable to anyone who wasn't on mind-altering substances.

He made it to the door and told himself he was only going for some air, but he just kept on walking once he reached the sidewalk, head down and heart racing as he put more and more distance between himself and that place.

It was official: he was a terrible homosexual. If he were being forgiving, he might qualify that he was a terrible Muggle homosexual. Yes, he knew it wasn't all dance clubs and backroom shenanigans. There were lonely-hearts ads and sports leagues—not that _that_ would end well—and social clubs and every other little thing that gave him a jealous ache in the pit of his stomach. But anything done in the light of day was too risky, and at this rate he was simply going to have to wait until both his parents were dead before setting up on the French Riviera and losing his virginity to a cabana boy.

Knowing his luck, he'd have a stroke before they even got done with the foreplay.

He was nearly home by the time he stopped his driven pace and took stock of his surroundings. He couldn't go back there. Bugger. He forged on to Ghillie Dhu Square instead, in unhappy retreat.

The neighbourhood was just as lively as he'd left it. They had built up a bonfire in the middle of the square, and the cold evening drizzle was dissuading neither the fire nor the revellers. Albus hung back under the trellis of the grocer's, watching his neighbours with the same mix of gentle envy and mild bafflement with which he had regarded the men at the club. A herd of boisterous children chased each other around the block. A young man took a young woman's hand.

It was not entirely a conscious decision to peek down Trotter Street. It was on his way home, after all, and one should always look both ways before charging through an intersection. It was, however, no idle thing to pause on the corner, trying to spot which of the row of lights belonged to the pub. It was probably busy. He didn't really need to have anything else to drink tonight. He was only going to make a fool of himself.

But he turned down the street anyhow, and he went into the pub. It wasn't quite as crowded as he'd expected. The bar stools were mostly occupied, and a small group of cackling ladies had claimed a back table, but there was room enough for Albus to slip awkwardly up to the bar and catch Viktor's eye.

Was that a smile? No. Trick of the light. It had to be.

He raised his voice to be heard over a nearby argument. "Rum and pumpkin, please."

Viktor was already reaching under the counter, offering up a glass and assembling the concoction with impressive efficiency. Albus tried very hard not to stare at his hands.

He took his drink to a corner table and sat there for several minutes just looking around, stealing glimpses of Viktor as he leaned forward against the bar talking to Mr. Winterbottom from the bank. Then he took a miniaturised book out of his pocket and enlarged it, and he sat and read. The story was absorbing enough that he didn't notice the time passing—didn't even hear the last call—and only looked up when Viktor began shooing a pair of wobbling inebriates out the door at wand-point.

Startled, he attempted to make short work of his drink, but Viktor turned and caught his eye, waving his hand dismissively. "Stay and finish, if you like."

Albus uncertainly put his book away and watched as everyone else drained their glasses, the ladies bidding Viktor a good All Hallows' on the way out.

Viktor took the sign out of the window and began to gather up stray refuse. "You are dressed tonight."

"What?" Albus looked down. "Oh, proper robes, you mean. Yeah, I was at a party last week—a Muggle party. Well, I was at a party tonight too, but this one was a Hallowe'en party. So I dressed up for the one that wasn't fancy dress and dressed regularly for the one that was, if that makes sense."

Viktor seemed amused by his babbling. "You go to a lot of parties."

He laughed. "Actually, I don't. I really don't. Only the last few months. It's...it's really a long story."

Thankfully, Viktor didn't enquire.

And yet the thought hung on awkwardly in Albus's head, burrowing its way into a sensitive spot. He hesitated. "Mr. Krum, I mean, Viktor..."

"Yes?"

"This may be an odd question—I don't want to put you on the spot or anything—and I'm only asking because we just met, so you're an unbiased source, you understand..."

Now Viktor looked very amused. "Yes?"

He thought very carefully before speaking. "What's your impression of me? I mean, how do I come across?"

A memory that had been nagging at him since he left the club insisted on itself. He remembered his mother's hushed voice drifting up through the thin ceiling into the attic:

_"I'm worried about him, Harry."_

_His father's voice is calm and even. "He's just shy."_

_"It's more than that. I think there might be something...wrong. He's so quiet and sensitive. It's hard to keep James and Lily inside, but he's always holed up alone in his room or in the attic, talking to himself."_

_"So he has a good imagination. There's nothing wrong with him, Ginny."_

_A soft sigh. "Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe he just takes after Percy."_

_The warm sound of his father's laughter. "He takes after me."_

_"Don't be silly."_

_"I'm not. You know, I was alone a lot at his age, but I don't think I was ever lonely."_

_Some time later, the attic hatch opens just wide enough for him to glimpse his father's face. A tray is slid through: a sandwich and a glass of milk and a slice of cake. The sandwich is too messily assembled to be Kreacher's handiwork. The hatch gently closes._

"I think..." Viktor's expression turned almost rueful. "I think that you are very young, and that you worry very much."

"Oh. Do you think that's a bad thing?"

Viktor shrugged. "You will get older. And there are very many things in this world to worry about."

"There are. Sometimes I just feel like..." He stopped, chuckling sheepishly. "Sorry. You must get people unloading on you all the time in your line of work."

Viktor grinned and straddled the chair across from him. "No. My customers know I do not care."

Albus slumped back in his chair, smiling. "I just...have you ever felt glaringly out of place?"

It earned him an eye-roll. "No, not at all." Viktor's accent thickened noticeably.

"Sorry. Stupid question. Where are you from originally?"

"Bulgaria."

He searched his mind for any fact that would make him appear even slightly educated about the place. None presented itself. "Oh. How long have you been in Britain?"

"Twenty years, give or take."

Under no circumstance was Albus going to make any comment about that being longer than he'd been alive. "Were you a pub landlord back there too?"

Viktor shifted in his seat. Albus got the impression he had just been rude, but he couldn't quite figure out where he'd misstepped. "No. I played quidditch."

"Oh." He decided he was not going to hold that against him. "My sister just got signed to Ballycastle."

That was obviously a step in the right direction because Viktor's shoulders eased slightly. "Yes?"

"My parents weren't too happy that she left school before sitting her NEWTs, but they're pretty proud. Everyone in my family played quidditch at school, except me."

"Ah, yes, you are out of place."

Albus dragged a fingertip awkwardly along the grain of the tabletop. "That's not the half of it."

Viktor was quiet for a time and then abruptly stood up. "I will walk with you home."

"Um. All right. If you're going my way." He gave a baffled shrug and got his cloak on while Viktor locked up.

They set out into the night, determined celebrants still holding on all around them with fires and music and cauldrons of cider set out on the street. Albus smiled faintly and wondered how the rest of his family were taking the holiday. It had always been a low-key affair at their house, given the history.

Viktor was quiet, his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his long coat. He was definitely...there, though. Matching Albus's stride precisely, walking just close enough to make him uncomfortable in a nervously speculative way.

"This is my building up here." Albus slowed, stopping just before the walkway, and looked around. "Do you live far?"

It earned him a puzzled frown and then a small, patient smile. "I live upstairs from the pub."

"Oh," he said stupidly. Then, even more stupidly, he said nothing at all as Viktor gave a small bow and turned back around. He stood out in the street for over a minute, watching him go. Then he slunk up to his flat.

"I'm an idiot," he announced as soon as he got through the door.

"I've been telling you that for years," Rose said, kissing his cheek as she breezed past him out onto the landing.

Scorpius lay on the couch, fully clothed. He held up a finger with a piece of string wrapped around it. "Call your father!"

"I'll call him in the morning." Albus threw his coat on the chair. Then he retrieved it and hung it up properly.

"He _said_, 'Tell Albus to call me when he gets in, even if it's late.' He also invited me for supper tomorrow, so I'm not about to cross him."

"That's a good idea. Maybe he or Mum might be able to set you up with a job at the Ministry. You should ask."

"I don't need a job."

Albus rolled his eyes. "Your landlord begs to differ."

"When Rose and I get married, I will be a kept man. "

"Mm-hm." Albus grabbed some floo powder and tossed it in the fireplace. "12 Grimmauld Place!"

He stuck his head in the fire and waited for an excited Kreacher to summon Dad. His stomach gave a painful, homesick twist as he looked around the kitchen.

"You must have been having fun," Dad said. He was in his pyjamas.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was reading the paper. I have tomorrow off. How are things in Edinburgh?"

He was never very good at lying to Dad. Mum? Not a problem. James and Lily? Even simpler. But Dad never seemed to expect it of him, Slytherin or no, and he'd rarely had the heart to disappoint him. "Been better."

"Want to talk about it?"

Albus regretfully shook his head. As disappointing as lying would be, there were truths that would be even worse. "It's just some nonsense at work. I'll figure it out. Should Scorpius and I bring anything for dinner?"

Mercifully, Dad seemed to buy his answer and wandered off to go get Mum to discuss the pressing matter of Sunday pudding. Albus could not shake the feeling that somewhere someone had to be having a very good laugh at his expense.

* * *

On his next evening off, Albus did not go to Slick, nor to One-Three-One, nor to Club M in London. Unfortunately, neither was he smart enough to stay home and put this whole foolish business out of his head. Instead, he put on his second-best robes and walked around the square for nearly an hour. Then he sat down on the front step of the dark apothecary, pretending to read for another hour. Then he drew up all his nerve and went into the Hammer and Tongs and ordered a rum and pumpkin, and then another, and then a third, sitting at the back table and drinking until he was giddy from too much sugar and dizzy from too much liquor.

His knee restlessly bounced up and down as he waited for the men at the bar to clear out. Viktor kept stealing small, unfathomable looks his way. Finally the clock hit half-past the hour and the customers finished up and drifted out, and Albus set his glass down on the table with a loud 'thunk.' He stood up a touch unsteadily and marched over to where Viktor was cleaning up a spill.

It occurred to him that what he was about to do was not wisely done to a man who had his wand drawn, but he had already built up his momentum. As such, he was completely unable to stop himself from grabbing the front of Viktor's robes and surging forward for a desperate, clumsy kiss.

For a long, horrible handful of seconds, he was certain it wasn't going to be returned. Then Viktor cupped the back of his head, pressed him back against the nearest table, and did it right.

Properly kissing another man: check.

His arms slid around Viktor's back, clutching tightly, afraid to draw away in case one of them—namely Viktor—had to go and say something stupid like, "Maybe this isn't the best idea," or "You're very nice, but..."

Speaking of which. 'Oh God, just man up and do it.' He moved his hands tentatively down the small of Viktor's back. A low, rough sound tickled his lips, and the edge of the table dug painfully against him as Viktor tensed up and pushed hard against him, kissing him like he was every bit as desperate as Albus.

Albus hardened with near-painful alacrity when a firm hand kneaded its way up his thigh. His hips jumped. "Oh, wow," he breathed out in a rush. "I really, really want you."

Magic words. Viktor let out a strained-sounding chuckle, his surprisingly hot lips moving over Albus's ear, his jaw, his throat. He felt the hurried, clumsy tug as his robes were unbuttoned, and then a cool draught of air was making his belly tighten, and then Viktor's hand was pushing its way into his drawers.

His knees wobbled at the first firm stroke. He made an incoherent sound as Viktor's thumb rubbed roughly over the head of his prick. His eyes pressed briefly shut, and he tried to reciprocate but could only manage to squeeze Viktor's hips in a mute plea.

The doorknob turned.

Albus's eyes flew open just in time to witness the fastest draw he had ever seen. The door slammed shut before it had opened even an inch, the door jamb splintering. The deadbolt snapped shut.

"Closed!" Viktor growled and then sank down to his knees, making Albus clutch the edge of the table in nervous, hungry anticipation.

He could hardly bear to look down. His robes were open from sternum to thigh, his prick jutting out eagerly. He caught a flash of red—Viktor wetting his lips before he pulled Albus's drawers down entirely—and then all he could feel was wonderful, marvellous heat.

His teeth dug into his lower lip, his breath quaking. It wasn't like in magazines; there was no camera to show off to, no reason to tease. Viktor's mouth was hot and tight and insistent, pulling back to hold just the tip of Albus's prick in his mouth, his tongue fluttering until Albus gave a helpless groan.

"Oh, yes, please." He didn't know what he was begging for. Certainly not for more. His fingernails dug into the palms to keep himself from coming on the spot.

His breathing echoed raggedly in his ears, and he felt dizzy, fizzy, like little bubbles were popping all the way through him. He fought not to let his hips buck as his prick ran achingly along the rough-slick surface of the roof of Viktor's mouth; fought not to whimper when warm fingers stroked his balls, carefully, cleverly tracing. He gave a full-body twitch when Viktor's mouth followed suit, mouthing at him as a faintly stubbled cheek rubbed up against his straining prick. He clumsily spread his legs further, clutching Viktor's shoulder.

He lasted all of thirty seconds after Viktor started sucking him again—sixty if he was flattering himself. The hungry mouth and a tight grip around the base of his prick all but yanked him over the most excruciatingly pleasurable peak he'd ever crested in his life.

"I—" He tried to give some warning, managing little more than a garbled groan, but Viktor's mouth stayed fixed to him, still moving and urging him on as he gave up every last drop of it.

Albus shivered when he was let slip, softening. Viktor's eyes glittered, and his mouth was smug.

Then Viktor was on his feet, kissing him so hard that he nearly split his lip. Albus pulled him close, almost stiffening up all over again when felt the hardness pressing against his hip. He could taste a faint tinge of bitter salt on Viktor's tongue.

He reached down, his hand bumping up against Viktor's as they both worked on getting into his robes. His hand twitched at the first proper touch of bare skin. He followed the indent of lean muscle inwards and down. Coarse hair and hot flesh. Viktor was stroking himself, the vividly red head of his prick disappearing in and out of the grip of his pale hand.

Viktor's breath puffed hot in his ear. "I want," he said "to fuck your thighs."

"Uh-huh," Albus muttered, slightly dazed. He very likely would have agreed to anything at this point, even if that wicked murmur hadn't been punctuated by a nip of his earlobe and a slow caress of his leg.

Viktor burned like a brand between his thighs as he brought them tightly together. A long, slow roll of Viktor's hips, more of a grind than a thrust. Albus curved one hand around the back of Viktor's neck as they kissed, the other burrowing its way into his robes and under his shirt to clutch at his bare back.

Little sparks shot through him as Viktor sucked hard at his throat and began driving against him. Albus moaned, trying to commit every hard jolt of it to memory, every low grunt and wet smack. His head tipped back, and he shut his eyes, daftly murmuring, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," over and over again until Viktor let loose with a hitching breath and he felt the pulse and the first wet dribble down his thigh. He was going to burn right up, he was certain of it—spontaneous immolation, phoenix-style.

They leaned on each other for what felt like several minutes, both of them catching their breath. Albus could feel another heartbeat hammering against his chest, slowly evening out. His lips hurt, and his thighs were sticky, and the fact that he had drunk three large cocktails was beginning to impress itself on his bladder. He fidgeted.

Viktor drew back.

Albus coloured, turning around to get his wand out and tidy himself up. He nearly melted when Viktor nuzzled his neck from behind. So this was what all the fuss was about. Yes, he could see now why sex made people stupid.

When they had both put themselves to rights, Viktor walked him home. It was raining, but they lingered on the front step of his building for a long while, kissing in the dark. Then Albus went inside, and went to bed, and fell asleep grinning like an idiot.

* * *

"You had sex," Scorpius declared accusingly over breakfast the next day. That was to say, Albus was having breakfast, and Scorpius, still in yesterday's clothes, had decided to steal half of it for a midnight snack.

Albus conscientiously cracked open his soft-boiled egg. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Albus Severus Pants on Fire. I know the look of the recently-shagged."

"What," Albus asked, polishing his spoon and admittedly feeling just a little pleased with himself, "makes you think I'm lying?"

Scorpius nicked another piece of his bacon. "That hickey on your neck, to start."

His hand flew to his neck.

"Plus I saw you engaging in heavy petting on the front step last night, and I know you're of low enough moral fibre to put out on the first date."

Albus paled. "You saw that?"

Shit.

Bugger.

Fuck.

Scorpius snorted. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. All the neighbours were asleep. I just like to keep an eye on the perimeter. Although once I realised that I was watching two men and one of them was you, I had to go pour bleach in my eyes. Thankfully I've recovered."

"You saw that."

"Do keep up, Albus." He reached for another rasher, and Albus smacked his hand. "So is that Not-Jayden?"

"...yes," Albus grumbled.

Scorpius wrinkled his nose. "No spring chicken, is he. How old is he?"

Albus rolled his eyes. "I don't know. Fifty or thereabouts. He's hardly Merlin."

"Still. If you were going to go for an older wizard, you would have saved a lot of fuss and bother by going to that club I told you about."

"I don't want—I didn't—" He put his spoon down and rubbed his eyes. Scorpius unfortunately had a point. "It was a stupid mistake. If this got out, if my father found out..."

Scorpius patted his head with one hand and stole a piece of toast with the other. "Why don't you just tell him already? Your family is disgustingly tolerant. If mine only disowned me for courting Rose, yours can hardly kill you for being a disgusting sodomite."

Albus sighed. "That isn't the point. I know my dad doesn't have a problem with that, per se. I mean, Professor Longbottom's one of his best friends. But after all he's been through, it just means _so much_ to him for us to be normal. This would break his heart, and I just know he'd think it was his fault somehow. And Mum...well, I'm pretty sure she feels the same way as Nan, and _she_ still calls it 'The Slytherin Vice.'"

"May I point out that you are Slytherin."

"Nan likes to forget that."

Scorpius made a rude sound. "I don't see why everyone hasn't guessed already. You have a lisp."

He frowned indignantly. "I do not!"

"Do so. A definite lilt at the very least. And you swish when you walk."

"Look, if you're going to channel my brother, I'm not going to—"

"All I'm saying is that you bear all the markers of a stereotypical pansy."

"This from the man who slept with a stuffed unicorn until he was seventeen."

Scorpius gasped, and then he visibly recovered, giving a haughty sniff. "It was a collector's item of great monetary and sentimental value."

"Is that why you sucked on its horn in your sleep?"

"I did no such thing." Scorpius was a terrible liar considering how much practice he got.

"I saw it with my own two eyes."

"What were you, wanking over me while I slept on unawares?"

Albus flicked a piece of eggshell at him. "In your dreams."

"Grow a pair of tits and then get back to me," Scorpius said. "So, Not-Jayden. Does he have one of these fabled 'jobs' or does he spend his time hanging about pubs preying on naive young architects?"

"He works." He was not about to tell Scorpius _where_, as the Hammer and Tongs was just close enough a walk that he might actually go there. "And stop calling him Not-Jayden. His name is Viktor. Viktor Krum."

Scorpius raised an eyebrow at that. "I think he's giving you a line."

"What do you mean?"

"Viktor Krum? Like the old quidditch player? For pity's sake, Albus, he's given you a false name. He probably doesn't want you following him home and meeting his wife."

Albus, to be fair, weighed the likelihood of that and whether it would bother him. It sort of would. "Wait, no. He told me he used to play quidditch back in Bulgaria."

Scorpius, looking sceptical, got up and stomped into the storage closet _cum_ guest bedroom. Albus could hear him tearing through his teetering stacks of junk. He emerged several minutes later with a dented hardcover, flipping through the pages with a determined frown.

"A-ha!" He plunked the book down in front of Albus, opened to a photograph of a young man about their age, scowling at the camera and fiddling with his broom. He had black hair and thick eyebrows, a strong nose and sharp, dark eyes. "_That_ is Viktor Krum."

The header in the top corner read: _The Greyhounds of Quidditch: 100 Famous Seekers and their Snitches_.

"That's him, all right."

Scorpius stared. "You shagged Viktor Krum. Krum the Cursed."

"Krum the Cursed?" God save him from quidditch fans.

Scorpius flipped several pages ahead and stabbed his finger accusingly at a section titled "What Ever Happened to Krum the Cursed?"

Frowning, Albus read on:

_Unfortunately, the 1994 World Cup would prove to be the peak of this young phenomenon's career. Signing with the Sofia Ernes after leaving Durmstrang, Krum achieved some modest but strong performances in the Eastern Division. However, after taking a year off in 1996 following the disappearance and outing as a Death Eater of his mentor and former headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, Krum returned a different player._

_Looking at Krum's subsequent record, it was undoubtedly a blunder for Bulgaria to draft him for the national team in 2000, but perhaps they cannot be faulted for hoping for another miracle. It was not to be, however. After a gruelling five-day game, Krum's final dive for the snitch knocked team-mate Aleksandar Gavrilov off his broom, resulting in a broken hip, and sent a stray bludger ricocheting into the stands. The Ernes elected not to renew Krum's contract following the game._

_Viktor Krum subsequently disappeared from public life. Not even _Quidditch Monthly_'s offer of 1000 galleons for an interview in 2004 could tempt him out of seclusion._

_So where is Krum now? Speculation ranges from a theory that he has opened up a secret flight school in Siberia and has trained such greats as Katenka Belaia and Abram Abelev, to a persistent rumour that he committed suicide in a Saint Petersburg hotel in 2001. Will we ever know the truth?_

"I'm surprised he didn't recognise you," Scorpius said. "He was one of the Tri-Wizard-Whatever champions along with your dad back in the day."

Albus sat back numbly. "I introduced myself by my professional name."

Scorpius screwed up his face in disdain. "I swear, you're the only Slytherin I know whose ambition is anonymity."

"It is not." He'd just had enough by age twelve of hearing, 'Wait, _that_ Potter?' "Merlin's beard, this is officially a mess."

"Ah..." Scorpius looked halfway sympathetic. "I don't suppose this is the best time to tell you that he and Rose's mum used to be an item."

Albus groaned.

"Not that I can blame him. Rose's mum is still pretty foxy. She must have been even foxier when she was Rose's age. Though _she_ certainly could have done better. Actually, do you know who he looks like? He looks a little like Severus Snape."

Enough was enough. "He does not."

"He does too. My father has a photograph of him from when he was younger." Scorpius shook his head. "Screwing someone who looks like your namesake, now that's a little perverse."

"'Namesake' works the other way around—and he does not look like Severus Snape."

"He does. He looks like Severus Snape made love to a vulture."

"I hate you."

"But you love Viktor Krum."

"I do not. It was a one-time thing. Obviously it's not a good idea to see him again." Aloud, it sounded like a very sensible and mature decision. He pushed the rest of his plate towards Scorpius, suddenly not very hungry.

Scorpius pursed his lips and was quiet for a few moments, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "But you will."

"No, I won't."

"You will," Scorpius insisted. "Because under that good-hearted and bookwormish exterior, you are a cold-blooded Slytherin who will get what he wants no matter whose feelings get hurt."

It was several hours later and halfway to the pub that Albus realised that had been Scorpius's way of calling him a romantic.

* * *

It started—or continued, depending on your view of things—with coffee and sandwiches at a nearby Muggle cafe. Then Albus went by the pub on his night off, and they had sex upstairs with lingering bouts of wickedness behind the bar and on the staircase. They went to the National Museum the next Monday, and on a midnight walk through the park where they came very close to perpetrating public lewdness beside the fountain.

Upon reflection, Albus should have known it was too good to last—but in all honesty, he had led a charmed enough life that he really believed it might. At worst, Viktor had been quick to notice that going anywhere besides the Muggle parts of the city during the daylight hours wasn't on the agenda.

"My parents..." Albus murmured apologetically.

Viktor shook his head. "Privacy is good."

Privacy was bloody wonderful. He lay naked in Viktor's bed in the room above the pub, whiling away a Sunday afternoon. It was a grey November day, conducive to lust and laziness and all sorts of other enjoyable sins. Albus had officially had sex more times than he could count on his fingers now, and it had blunted his hormones ever so slightly.

For instance, he could appreciate kissing rather more today than he might have last week. Tangled up with Viktor, it wasn't entirely a tease but its own entertainment. Just slow, wet kisses and a bit of conversation. Not really going anywhere yet, although he was hard and Viktor was halfway there, rubbing against him with a patient inevitability that gave him a pleasant crop of gooseflesh.

Albus sighed as a familiar patter started up. "I hate the rain."

Viktor chuckled, licking his collarbone. "You live in the wrong city, then."

"Mmm. I like this city, just not the rain. I wish it would snow here." It would snow some years at Hogwarts, and today he found he missed it.

"Many places, they would be happy to have it so warm."

He stroked Viktor's arms. They were really great arms. He wondered if he lifted weights or if it was just carrying around all those kegs and cases. "Does it snow much in Bulgaria?"

Viktor idly played with his nipples, making him squirm. "In the mountains. Not often where I lived."

Albus stretched out. It was hard to be embarrassed when Viktor looked at him like that. "I've never been. I've never been anywhere abroad, really, except for France."

"Bulgaria is very beautiful."

"Do you go back often?"

Viktor stopped stroking his stomach. He drew back with a very faint frown. "No."

Albus fidgeted, uncomfortably reaching for the sheet. "If I put my foot in it, you can tell me, you know. I take direction well."

He hadn't meant it as a double entendre, but it had the benefit of making Viktor smile.

"I do not go back to Bulgaria."

"All right. Fine." Albus forced a smile. "I won't even ask if it's because you're a wanted man. I'm just that amenable."

"You are." He stroked Albus's hip, still frowning a little, but more distantly. When he spoke, his voice had a brittle, brisk edge, as though he wanted to get the words over with quickly. "I am not wanted—at all. I was a quidditch star there, and then I was not, and many people were made unhappy by it."

Albus decided no good would come from admitting he knew the whole story, because he didn't. He sincerely doubted any book Scorpius owned adhered to journalistic standards. "It took a lot of effort, given my family, but I know absolutely nothing about quidditch beyond the fact that there are six hoops and three balls."

"Four."

"...that's what I meant."

Viktor chuckled, the lines on his brow lightening.

"Ah well," Albus added. "No one plays forever, right? Make your money and get out."

Viktor smiled tightly. "There was no money. I gave it to my parents, for my sisters to go to school. I came here with nothing. Started over again." He shook his head. "I do not like to be known here, and I am not."

Except by him. Albus wasn't certain if he should feel flattered or uncomfortable. He rolled over onto his side, looking at Viktor through the messy curtain of his fringe. "Does it make you feel at all better to know I wouldn't be sleeping with you if you still played quidditch? I don't do athletes."

"You do not, do you?"

"Nope," Albus said and kissed him. "Only pub landlords." It was the closest he was going to come to admitting that Viktor was, to date, his first and only.

"I am very lucky, then."

"You are." He hooked his leg around Viktor's and drew him closer. He was discovering that he liked a little weight on him, the not-quite-suffocating press of naked skin and warm breath against his cheek. Viktor tumbled him back, nuzzling him, smelling of everything that was sex and bright and lovely.

Albus arched, baring his neck for a kiss and a nibble. Then Viktor was frotting against him in earnest, sucking on his lower lip. He closed his eyes, squeezing Viktor's arse and making them both move a little harder, a little rougher. Their skin rubbed raw against each other, and he could feel a bead of sweat forming in the small of his back.

"Oh, yes..."

Viktor ground against him, making him gasp and arch and shake and twist. The kisses sharpened, the scrape of teeth over his windpipe making him choke on a laugh that welled up from his chest. Nothing was funny, but everything was good, especially when Viktor started growling in his ear—words that weren't English, words he kept telling himself to remember so that he could look them up later, but his brain wasn't at its best when he was five seconds from coming, and so he simply soaked up the pleasure of the low, rough sound of them and the wet caress of Viktor's lip around his earlobe.

He felt it building low, that delicious tension. So close, so close...

"Lovely..." Viktor murmured, in English now, and that was enough to topple him over the edge.

Warm-wet flare, his legs shaking. It seemed to go on forever with Viktor still thrusting against him, drawing it out, making it last until he was ready to come too. One of these days he was going to outlast him.

Afterwards, Albus lay lazy and lush, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and the wet mess on his belly slowly drying. Viktor rolled off him, propping himself up on an elbow and regarding him closely.

"What?" Albus asked.

"You are a very interesting boy."

He smiled sleepily. "I'm not a boy."

Viktor reached over him to the night table and grabbed his wand and cigarette case. He lit a cigarette and sat up against the headboard, taking a long drag. Albus didn't really care for tobacco, but he liked to watch him. He looked utterly relaxed when he smoked, as he so rarely did any other time. Then again, he seemed to only smoke after sex, so maybe Albus could take a little of the credit.

Now it was Viktor's turn for a suspicious look. "What?"

Albus chuckled. "I was picturing you in a fur hat and pea coat."

A frown. "Why?"

"I just was. It would be sexy. Would you wear a fur hat if I got you one?"

"No."

"Come on." Albus rolled over and wiggled closer.

"No."

"What about just in bed?"

Viktor seemed to consider it. "...perhaps."

He rested his head on Viktor's thigh, his eyelids growing heavy. Viktor stroked his hair, something that was actually rather pleasant, considering he didn't usually like to have his head touched. Albus looked idly around the room at the stack of books and neatly organised wardrobe. He eyed a photograph on the shelf of what looked to be Viktor when he was younger, standing with a tall, thin, older man wearing a beard and a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He smirked at the laundry pile in the corner, the dirty clothes neatly folded. It was cosy in here, quiet and close.

He idly traced his fingertip along Viktor's leg as a wisp of smoke curled over him, and he spelled out A-S-P by touch. The outside world was vastly overrated.

* * *

The morning edition of the Daily Prophet arrived squarely on schedule at a quarter past eight on Monday morning. That in and of itself was nothing unusual. Albus gave the owl a cricket and took in the paper along with the rest of the morning post. He delivered Mr. Forthright and Mr. Zabini and Ms. McClaren's respective letters to their offices, and then he set the newspaper on his own desk, as he was the only one who actually read it. He scanned the lead story, which was about restructuring at the Ministry—nothing urgent. The top half of a headline peeped out just above the fold. The word "Quidditch" did not warrant immediate unfolding.

The paper sat there until lunchtime.

At noon, Albus signed for the lunch deliveries and took his carton of curry and rice back to his desk. He dissected the paper, removing the business section first to check on an investment he'd warily made on Mr. Zabini's insistence. Then he read the comics. Then he straightened out the front page to find Viktor's face staring back at him.

"QUIDDITCH RECLUSE SPOTTED IN GHILLIE DHU!"

His mouth fell open. He read the title again, and then a second time, and then a third time. When it stubbornly refused to alter, he frantically scanned ahead.

"A confidential source reports..."

"...Hammer and Tongs in Edinburgh..."

"...2004 World Cup fiasco..."

"...Saint Petersburg hotel..."

"...other celebrities to be spotted at the Hammer and Tongs include Albus Severus Potter, younger son of the famous..."

The paper fell from his hands. He numbly picked it up and carefully folded it back together. He got up and then sat down. Then he got up again and paced the ten steps by eleven of his office. Then he proceeded down the corridor to Mr. Zabini's office and knocked on the door.

"Enter."

He peeked inside, standing uncertainly on the threshold and anxiously rattling the doorknob back and forth.

"What is it, Evans?" Mr. Zabini asked without looking up from his plans.

"I think...I think I might have to take a personal day," Albus said.

Mr. Zabini put his pen down and glanced up. His brow creased slightly. "You look pale. Are you ill?"

Albus hesitated and then shook his head, even though his stomach was starting to twist up with a sick sense of impending doom. "Just something I have to check in on. A family emergency."

He was half-hoping that Mr. Zabini would say no. Send him back to his office. Give him a reason not to go see Viktor.

But Mr. Zabini nodded. "Take the rest of the afternoon."

Albus turned uncertainly and left the building. His thoughts raced at light speed, a garbled blur of who and what and how. It didn't have anything to do with him, it couldn't. He hadn't breathed a word to anyone. It was a coincidence, it had to be. All right, it just so happened that after twenty years in Britain, someone had recognised Viktor in the street and informed the papers. And it just so happened that this was only a month after Albus had become involved with him. Viktor would understand "just so happened." Viktor probably even knew who had leaked the story. Maybe he had even done it himself.

The flaw in that line of thinking became evident when he reached the square. There was a queue winding right out of the end of Trotter Street. Reporters with their pads and idiots in quidditch jerseys knocked shoulders roughly, trying to get closer to the pub. Albus stared, cursing under his breath in disbelief. He detoured around the block, cutting through to the back of the building and going up the fire stairs.

He rapped on the back door, trying to keep his voice down in case someone heard him out front. "Viktor? Viktor, it's me."

The sound of footsteps approached the door, but it did not open.

"Viktor?" His stomach gave a lurch. "Let me in. Are you all right?"

The doorknob turned and the door opened just a sliver. He glimpsed the gleam of a wand as one cold, dark eye glared out at him.

"It wasn't me," was the first thing out of Albus's mouth. "I swear."

The expression on Viktor's face was hard and ugly. "And why should I believe you?"

Albus stared. "Because I—because we're friends. Because I know how important your privacy is to you. I wouldn't lie."

The newspaper hit him square in the face. He ducked belatedly. "Ow!"

"So you are not a liar, Albus _Evans_?"

Fuck.

Bugger.

Fuck.

"I can explain—"

"Go tell it to the imbeciles outside. You will have what you want then, yes? You'll be nice and famous like your father? I knew your father, and he would die of shame to see you now."

Somehow, Albus had made it to nearly nineteen years of age without ever fighting with someone. It was not as glaring a lack in his development as making it to the same age without being kissed was; in fact, up until this moment, he had never given a single thought. And yet it occurred to him now that he was missing some essential callus that might have kept him from falling completely the fuck apart. His brother's teasing, his sister's tattling, Scorpius's occasional descent into endlessly annoying idiocy, those had only been paper cuts. This was a messy stab wound between the ribs with a dull blade.

He could nearly taste blood in his mouth, a rotten metallic tang. "Look, I don't know why I didn't tell you my name. I think I only—I wanted something that was only mine, all right? I wanted to just be me, and I wanted you to just be you, and I didn't want to hear about how my father and my aunt knew you first. I only wanted—"

His eyes were stinging. He couldn't do this. He turned around and walked back down the steps. The door slammed behind him, causing a stir out front. Albus sat down on the kerb and put his head between his knees until he could breath again. There he sat until a particularly intrepid reporter squeezed through the alley and over the fence.

"Wait, aren't you...?"

Albus drew his wand and fired a pulverizing hex at the idiot's camera. It exploded in a shower of gears and shredded film.

"Hey!"

He apparated home, staggering into the middle of his sitting room. It took him approximately five seconds to realise that something was very wrong. The sitting room had been cleaned up, and the crumbs had been brushed off the couch. The dishes had been done. It smelled like pine cleaner. And the door Scorpius's room was shut.

It really shouldn't have come as a surprise, but somehow it did.

He got up and stormed over to the guest room. Careful quiet—he could all but hear Scorpius holding his breath inside. He broke the door down.

Scorpius leapt up with a yelp. "Albus, you're home early! I was just—"

He held his wand level at him, his hand burning with an uncast curse and his arm trembling hard. Scorpius stared back at him, wide-eyed and guilty.

Then Albus crumpled to the floor, his wand dropping. He put his head in his hands.

The silence stung. After several moments, Scorpius crawled over to him, stopping a cautious foot away—flicking Albus's wand out of reach—and cocking his head to peer at him. "Albus?"

"Just tell me," Albus said, mildly surprised that he managed to keep his voice steady. "How much money did they pay you?"

Scorpius's shoulders hunched up. He didn't try to deny it. "Thirty galleons."

"And what," Albus asked, "was so important that you needed to ruin my life to get it?"

Hesitation. Then Scorpius reached over to the shelf and retrieved a small velvet box. He flipped it open, revealing a modest diamond ring. "...sorry."

Albus closed his eyes very tightly. Goddamnit.

Scorpius hesitantly laid a hand on his back. "Look...you were too good for him anyhow. We'll find you someone better. Someone rich and good-looking, and—"

"Scorpius," Albus interrupted.

"Yes?"

"I need you to get out of my sight right now. Do you understand?"

"...yes. I'll, ah, be at Rose's if you need me." He paused. "You won't tell her about this, will you? Because I don't think she'd be—"

"_Scorpius_."

"Right. Leaving now."

He heard the front door open and shut a moment later. Then he got up with a twinge and went to lie down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. 'So what?' he thought. 'So what, so what?' It didn't even matter. He pulled the blankets up over his face until his glasses steamed up from his breath. Then he threw them off and got to his feet, pacing. He had never wanted to talk to his father more in his life. Dad would know what to say, he would know what to do. He always knew what to—

It was then that the stupidest idea Albus had ever had in his life lit up before him in mad red and gold glory. He dove for his quill.

* * *

The early edition of the Daily Prophet landed on Albus's desk at half past eight the next morning, courtesy of Mr. Zabini.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the office, Evans?"

Albus gave a startled glance at the clock. He had come in early to catch up on yesterday's reports and had worked right through the mail call. He picked up the newspaper and examined the front page thoughtfully. His palms were dry, his stomach uncomplaining; he tried not to work himself into a state over how calm he felt. "Not really, sir."

Mr. Zabini arched an eyebrow to a degree somewhere between contempt and amusement. "Good."

He waited until Mr. Zabini had left. Then he put aside his reports and took out a sheet of parchment. Sharpened his quill. Stirred the inkpot. Finally, he wrote:

_I don't know if this changes anything, but at the very least, people will have someone else to talk about._

A splotch of ink soaked into the paper as he hesitated a long moment.

_I miss you.  
-Albus Severus Potter (Evans)_

Both note and newspaper were dispatched via the company owl. Albus got back to work, as neither schemes nor mildly broken-hearted moping tended to pay the bills. He kept his mind on business for the remainder of the day, save for whenever the tap of rain against the window sounded too much like an owl's talon. There was no reply.

He walked home that evening in lieu of flooing, dragging his feet until his boots were scuffed. The rain blurred his glasses, but he was too lazy to take out his wand and rectify the situation. He turned the corner onto his street and then halted.

There was someone waiting outside his building.

He took off his glasses and wiped them on his cloak. Short black hair and a familiar long coat. The burning cherry of a lit cigarette just barely glimpsed behind a cupped hand. Albus hurried up, then slowed, then hurried again.

"Hello," he said rather cautiously.

Viktor turned to face him, thrusting forward his copy of the Prophet. It would have been more dramatic if the soggy paper hadn't folded limply over.

Albus had already committed the headline to memory. One of these days, someone would realise that alliteration did not necessarily equal wit, but it could have been worse.

"POTTER INVERT IMBROGLIO: FAMOUS FAMILY ROCKED BY RACY RUMOURS!"

To his annoyance, they hadn't used the picture he had thoughtfully sent in but the bleary-eyed one from his passport instead.

"What is this?" Viktor demanded, throwing his cigarette aside. It landed in a puddle, going out with a very faint hiss.

Albus hadn't dared imagine what Viktor's reaction would be, but this wasn't it. "Um. A grand romantic gesture?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up and down the street awkwardly. Finally, he managed to meet Viktor's eyes. Just a flicker, selfish and determined and just wanting him to stop glaring like that. "Sorry. I have Gryffindor DNA and occasionally have the urge to do this sort of thing."

Viktor's shoulders were tense, his hand curled tightly around the note. "You sent this in."

"I did."

"But not what they wrote yesterday."

He shook his head. Honesty, right. It was overrated, but some people put a lot of stock in it—a quality he already knew he could live with. "No, but I know who did. He didn't mean to—well, yes, he did. He's an idiot. I'm sorry my friend is an idiot."

Viktor nodded slowly. "The reporters left."

"I suspect they might be at my parents' house right now."

"That is not good."

Albus smiled ruefully. "No, it isn't. Sunday dinner is going to be a little awkward."

He sat down carefully on the wet step. After a moment, Viktor sat down beside him. They were both silent for a while, looking at their hands.

"It was a stupid thing to do," Viktor finally said.

Albus shrugged. "I don't know. It's sort of cunning if you look at it from the right angle. If it worked, I mean." He paused. "Did it work?"

Viktor huffed a bitter little laugh. He took his cigarette case out of his pocket and lit another cigarette. He took a drag and then breathed out a curl of smoke and steam. "Yes."

Something uncoiled in Albus's chest, making him sag in relief. He grinned. "Oh. Good. It was definitely cunning, then. In fact, forget what I said about Gryffindors. This was a Slytherin plan through and through."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

It didn't put a dent in Albus's smile. "Nobody's perfect."

Viktor's laugh was sweeter this time, that low, warm chuckle.

As long as it was his lucky day...

"I don't suppose you want to come on Sunday? I could use some backup."

He didn't really expect Viktor to say yes, but he was leading high, hoping to haggle him up to coming inside at the very least.

But Viktor nodded. "All right."

"All right." A raindrop dripped off his fringe onto his nose. "We should go inside. I mean, do you want to come up? I can't promise a mob won't form while we're up there, but I'm on the floo network."

Viktor nodded again and rose stiffly. He looked a little weary, as though he hadn't slept the night before. Albus held the door for him, and they climbed the narrow stairway together, side by side but not quite touching. The fireplace was glowing green when he got into his flat, and a familiar face was waiting patiently in the flames.

"Oh." Albus paused halfway through the door. "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Albus. You know, a funny thing happened when I went to get the paper this morning—" He broke off. "That's not Viktor Krum?"

Viktor stepped out from behind Albus and gave a small bow.

Dad hesitated, and even in the distorted flicker of the flames, Albus could see conclusions being swiftly drawn. "Oh. Hello, Viktor. Nice to see you again."

Albus got between them, crouching down in front of the fire. "Listen, Dad, I can explain everything. I just really don't want to do it over the floo."

His father snorted softly. "Yes, the front page of the Prophet was really the way to go."

"Um..." He lowered his voice to just over a whisper. "How angry are you right now?"

The question seemed to stun him. "Me? Albus, I can't say I'm surprised, although I wish you'd trusted me enough to tell me first. Your mum, on the other hand...well, don't worry about it, I'll work on her."

"I didn't exactly plan on telling any—wait, what do you mean you aren't surprised?"

Dad coughed delicately. "Well, you know. You have a bit of a...lilt."

"I do not!" He looked to Viktor for confirmation only to find him studying the bookcase with single-minded interest. "Oh, for pity's sake."

"You're coming to dinner on Sunday, I hope."

Albus sighed. "If I don't, everyone's going to come here, aren't they."

"Count on it."

"I'll be there."

"Good." Dad smiled and then hesitated. "Will Viktor be joining us?"

"Um...yes. If that's all right. He'll be feigning an old sport injury if I need to escape."

"Oh, good. I'll remember to set another place."

An awkward silence ensued.

"I—"

"—don't."

Dad won out, of course. He had seniority. "I love you, you know. And I'm sure I'll be very proud of you when I figure out exactly what you've done."

"Love you too, Dad," he said, and he gave a small, desperately grateful wave before he closed the floo.

He got up and went over to Viktor's side. An arm came around his shoulders, and he leaned into the embrace. He closed his eyes and gave serious thought to what he would make Scorpius do in order to get back into his good graces. Fully financing a holiday might be a start. Somewhere far away, he decided. Somewhere with snow, and no newspapers, and a spotty floo connection. Then he considered what Sunday would bring.

Two men walk into a lion's den...

**Author's Note:**

> A gorgeous illustration by Littleblackbow can be found [here](http://littleblackbow.insanejournal.com/140995.html).


End file.
